


Symphony

by esama



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-13 04:22:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2136846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite all the magic in the world, Harry had never encountered magic like that of a genius mind. A whole family of them was bit overwhelming really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on ffnet around 2012  
> Proofread by Darlene

It was the music that brought Harry out of his shock, and made him aware of his surroundings once more. He was standing on a street – a normal, no, a _wealthy_ muggle street – under the steady light of a streetlamp. From somewhere in the far distance he could hear the sound of cars, even further a dog barking. And the music.

Harry turned his head, still too dull minded to think. His eyes were still full of spell fire and flashes, his breathing still heavy from running – there was blood in his mouth, no doubt also on his clothing. But he knew – oh, he _knew_ – that he wasn't _there_ anymore. No, he couldn't be. Not in that place, not in that fight.

He took a deep, shuddery breath, and glanced around him, just to make sure. His hand was shaking, still gripping his wand, and his knees felt weak and stiff all at once. The area around him was still and peaceful – shadowy with the late evening, and quiet. Solemn, somehow. Nothing like that other street had been, where he had been running and fighting – falling judging by the feel of his ankle – and, without a doubt, losing.

He wasn't there anymore.

The strength seemed to go out of him in the sigh he released, and he fell down to his knees, his shoulders slumping, the wand falling from his fingers.

Thank _God._

For a moment that was all he could think – the bone weary relief all he could feel - it felt like the four days of running had descended upon him in that one moment, and burst like a soap bubble, leaving him empty and so grateful for it. He felt like laughing and crying all at once – the sound he let out was a little bit of both – but more than that he felt like curling into himself and closing his eyes until sleep would sweep the world around him away.

They might find him if he slept, he knew. But at that point, it would be a relief – so long as they killed him instantly, and let him slip away without notice.

Harry entertained that thought only for as long as it took him to catch his breath. No, they wouldn't give him that, of course not. His death, when it came, would be painful, long and without any doubt cruel. Painful, like Hermione's. Long, like Neville's. And cruel like Ron's.

And he couldn't give them the satisfaction of finding him here, on an open street, without even attempting to hide…

The music, once more, brought him out of his mind, and Harry lifted his head. Piano and, what was it, violin? He had no way of judging, music had never been his thing, but it sounded rather like those two – and it was coming from the house right in front of him. They were playing something fancy in duet, classical maybe though he couldn't judge that either, really, having never heard much classical music outside muggle telly commercials. But it sounded nice.

It sounded… lovely…

The house looked like the music sounded too. An old stone building with an overgrown garden just on the other side of the dark steel gate, thin enough for an average man to walk right through it. There were vines growing up the walls and trees, and what might've been a fountain – it looked verdant, almost welcoming. But it was nothing compared to the windows – which reached from the floors to the ceilings, were covered only by the thinnest of curtains on the inside, and which shone in a golden glow of whatever lamps they had indoors.

How long Harry stared at the front of the house, the tall, glowing windows, the vines growing up the wall at each side of them, he wasn't sure. The music changed to another fancy duet piece, trickling out of the house through an open window. At times, he could hear a voice, remarking on something – a man's deep tones – but he couldn't make out the words.

Why couldn't he have that? A simple house like that – peaceful, wrapped in the serenity of the quiet street, glowing with inner warmth, with the sounds of life trickling out. A home. He would've very much liked a home.

Harry took another deep breath and then pushed himself back to his feet. He fully intended to turn where he stood and try and Apparate somewhere – he wasn't sure where, but there had to be some place left which was still safe – but instead, he remained facing the house. The longing in his chest churned and twisted painfully, and before Harry knew it, he had taken a step forwards. Then another, followed the beckoning light of the windows, the gleam of the doorbell.

Surely he could just… take a look? Ask for directions maybe – he had no idea where he was, after all. The people who lived in the house would no doubt chase him away, but he would have a glimpse of that home to carry with him, a glimpse of a nice, warm place which still, despite everything, existed. He needed to have that glimpse, he needed that more than he needed rest, or food, or death.

Before he could even try and convince himself otherwise, Harry was already ringing the doorbell.

 

* * *

"… later. Sometimes we can and must put aside our work and duties for something more important," a male voice spoke softly. Harry frowned slightly, but was too tried to try and remember who the speaker was. "Now go and see to your brother, Mycroft. He should be getting ready to wake up about now."

"…Yes, father," a child's voice answered. "But you will call me if he wakes up?"

"Of course I will," the man answered, and then there were the sounds of soft feet treading away, a door closing after them. Harry very nearly let himself doze at that, satisfied that whatever he had been listening to had come to its conclusion, but a hand touching his cheek, turning his head drew him back and away from the tempting slumber.

"Come now," the male voice admonished him. "I know you must be tired, but I have many questions and I think you should have something to eat."

"Mm," Harry answered and forced his eyes open. The room he was in was dimly lit, only by whatever light was passing through the curtains, and he sighed with some relief at that. He hated waking up in a bright room – it tended to disorient him.

There was a man leaning over him – a man he didn't know. Harry stared up at him, a frown coming to his face as he tried to remember, to make sure. It was all blurry though. "My glasses?" Harry asked in a dry voice.

"Ah, here," the man answered, and the glasses were promptly handed over. Once he had them on, Harry gave the man another look. That hair, dark and curly, and those eyes? Had he ever known anyone with pale grey eyes?

The man smiled, confusing him even further. "That's better," he said softly and then turned away, reaching for something – a cup. "Water," he said, bringing the cup closer to Harry's face – there was a straw in it, and for a moment Harry just blinked at the thing before opening his mouth. A straw? he wondered as he drank.

Not a Death Eater then, or a wizard of any sort. Wizards hadn't discovered plastic yet. Or straws.

"Where am I?" Harry asked blearily, after the cup had been withdrawn.

"Where do you think you are?" the man asked, while placing the cup down.

It took Harry a moment to go through the question in his head. "Somewhere in Britain?" he asked rather hopefully – the man was speaking _his_ English, at least. "England?" he wasn't all that sure about that, but one could hope.

The man lifted a single eyebrow at his words. "If that's the closest you can get, you really must be confused. You're in London – in Belgravia," he said, and nodded towards the window. "Last night you wandered up to my door, rang the doorbell, and… fainted."

Harry blinked slowly. "Huh," he then said. "Sorry about that."

"Hm. Rough night?" the man asked casually, glancing at him.

"Something like that," the wizard admitted, blinking a few times more until the world around him started to make sense – and his memories started to trickle in. Oh, yes, of course. He had probably Apparated in the midst of the last skirmish and ended up in… Belgravia? Well it had gotten him away from the Death Eaters at any rate.

And he should probably get away from _here_ , Belgravia or otherwise, before the Death Eaters tracked him down again. "I should probably go," he said, and pushed himself into a seated position. God only knew why he hadn't been found yet, and the longer he stayed…

That was when his bruises, his aches – and his gut wrenching hunger – all made themselves known to him. He winced, groaned and gagged all at once, tasting bile and blood and pain and seeing stars for a moment. The aches and bruises and cuts and burns and whatever he else he had were bad enough, but his stomach… he hadn't felt pain like that in years, not since he had been eight or younger. God, when had been the last time he had eaten? He couldn't even remember. At Aberforth's place? No, he must've eaten after that, that had been, what, ten days ago? Eleven? He'd be dead of starvation by now.

"Go so soon? In trouble, are we?" the man asked, glancing him up and down and making Harry aware of the fact that his robes – and his jumper and under shirt – were all gone. As were his trousers. They had been replaced with sticking plasters and bandages, the most impressive of which had been wrapped around his chest, over some scratches he had gotten in a fight against… he didn't even remember what, really.

"Where are my clothes?" Harry asked carefully, running a hand over the bandage and wincing. His cuts had been cleaned – with muggle medicine. He had almost forgotten how much the stuff could sting.

"Drying," the man said, standing up. "They were dirty and bloody and some things I rather not think too hard about. Food?"

"What?"

"Would you like some food? You're all skin and bones and I've been hearing nothing but your stomach objecting ever since I put you in that bed," the man said, and as he stood there, looming and impossibly tall, Harry took him in. He was dressed _very_ nicely. In a dress shirt, tie, neatly ironed trousers – his tie pin and cufflinks gleamed silver as he moved. "I admit I'm not much of a cook, but I have some soup which I think will do you nicely."

"Will it?" Harry asked, and was a bit startled to hear the naked longing in his voice. God, he was _starving_. His stomach, hurting so much now that it was making him feel a bit nauseous, groaned in agreement.

"Yes, I think it will. Don't move a muscle, I will be right back," the man said, turned, and walked out of the room, leaving Harry staring after him both hopefully, and confusedly.

He should go, he really should. Why had the man taken him in anyway? Any muggle would've called the cops instead – the Dursleys certainly would've, and so would've everyone else on Privet Drive. But he was really, really hungry, and still so weary. And he wasn't even sure where he should go – where he could go. And he didn't even have any clothing and…

Harry's eyes trailed down and to himself. He had another bandage on his upper arm – burn mark there – and over his wrist – a wound there, had it been from a knife, a sword? He could feel others – on his cheek, on his forehead, on his left leg… the man had really patched him up. Well, at least nothing was – or seemed to be – broken.

Harry was just about to take a look at his leg, when the door re-opened, and the man returned carrying a silver tray with not just a bowl of soup, but a platter of bread, butter, orange juice. "Pardon the simplicity of this," the man said, while setting the tray to the table beside the bed where Harry sat. "Like I said, I am not much of a cook."

"It looks… good," Harry said honestly. It looked like the most enticing thing he had seen in years, actually, but he was too busy reaching for the bread to say that. "It is alright, isn't it?" he asked, stopping just half an inch away from a slice.

"Yes, yes, of course. Go ahead," the man said; taking seat on the chair set beside the bed. "It's for you, after all – and there's more where it came from."

"Well. Alright then," Harry said, and dug in, too hungry to worry about things like wariness or suspicion, poisons or truth drugs. The first slice of bread was gone almost the moment he touched it, and the bowl of soup, a simple mix of vegetables and some pieces of meat, soon followed it. The other slices of bread weren't too far behind, and Harry was all too grateful to wash it down with the orange juice.

The man watched him while he wolfed the food down without saying anything, just watching him. When the last crumb was gone, he offered almost curiously, "More?" to which Harry shook his head. His stomach still hurt and he felt like he was about to burst – and he wouldn't do favours to himself if he over ate.

"I'm sorry, I have nothing to pay you back with," the wizard said awkwardly, wiping his lips.

"Don't worry about it," the man said with a soft snort. "It wouldn't strain my finances all that greatly even if you ate through every cupboard of the house. Now. I have some questions -"

"I probably can't answer them." Harry said before the man could continue. He had no idea where he would've even begun to explain, and besides, the Death Eaters could track him even easier if he broke the statue of secrecy. "And I really should probably go."

"… Alright," the muggle man answered easily, and then folded his arms. "Do you have a place to go? Someone you can contact?"

Harry hesitated, and his silence was answer enough.

"I thought as much. One doesn't end up in the state you were in, if they have someone they can count on," the man said thoughtfully. "All they really can have is trouble, and quite bit of it."

Harry squirmed. His definition of trouble was probably a bit different from this man's, and he couldn't help but wonder what the man was thinking. That he was… what? Well, in his dirty clothing, in his state, Harry had probably looked no better than an insane homeless person helplessly addicted to something, running away from who knows what, some gang maybe, out to get him? His robes, he had no idea what the man might've made of those. Or his…

"My things, I had –" Harry looked around quickly. He had very little left at this point – the wand he had stolen from Voldemort, his Invisibility Cloak, the Mokeskin pouch he had gotten from Hagrid, inside which were the fragments of his wand, the mirror, the snitch he had gotten from Dumbledore… God, the wand, the _Invisibility Cloak_! Had the man seen them, what had he… "Where are they?" Harry asked frantically.

The muggle man nodded to a drawer on the other side of the room, where in neat row stood his last worldly possessions. The wand, the pouch, the cloak. "Those things of yours are the reason why I didn't call the police," the man admitted, standing up with oddly fluid, elegant motion, and striding over. He took the gleaming, quick-silver like cloak, unfolding it and looking at it admiringly. "Whatever this is, however you got this… it is quite fascinating."

Harry wetted his lips nervously before glancing down, lifting the duvet. He was completely naked beneath, so jumping up and making a mad dash for his wand would probably not be the most dignified thing to do. "Um. Might my clothes be dry yet?" he asked rather hopefully.

"I doubt it, it was only hour or so ago when I hung them up," the man answered, and glanced at him. He glanced down at Harry's bare waist and then smiled. "I opted against trying to re-clothe you due to the desire not to aggravate your wounds. But perhaps you would like to borrow a night robe?"

"I'd like that, yeah," Harry admitted, and when the man pointed at his other side, he turned. There, on another bedside table, lay a folded piece of thick cloth. A night robe. "…Thanks," the wizard murmured, and quickly helped himself to the robe.

"Hm. There are many things about this world that I know I know nothing about, and I wouldn't dare to paint myself as all knowing. However this," the man murmured, and Harry could hear the soft slithering sound of the Invisibility Cloak as it moved, "this does not follow the laws of science as I know it."

"Mm-hmm," Harry answered, tugging the robe's belt into a tight knot and standing up. The thing was nothing like a wizard's robe, and a bit too big on him, but he had worn worse things. He turned, and then blinked.

The muggle man was gone.

No, not gone. Invisible.

"That's… mine, you know," the wizard said awkwardly and held out his hand towards the spot where the man had stood.

"It's incredible, that's what it is," a bodiless voice answered him, and then the man came into view, first just a sliver of him and then the rest as he unwrapped the Invisibility Cloak. Despite his words, he handed the magical garment back to Harry. "Is it what you got into such a trouble for?" the man asked.

"This cloak? No, not really," Harry answered, and glanced at the wand – the _Elder_ _Wand_. That was what he had gotten into trouble for – that was what had all the Death Eaters, Dark Wizards and just about anything and everything else after him.

Following his eyes, the man turned and then reached for the wand. "It's not a conductor's baton. If I were a man inclined to believe in fantasies, I would say it's a _wand_ ," he said, holding the deadliest of all wands in history by its _tip_. "How valuable this must be, if it is this rather than the impossible garment that makes one invisible, that put you into such a state."

"Yeah," Harry answered awkwardly, and reached for the wand. The man glanced at him, but handed it over too without any trouble, only looking curious and not at all threatened. "I should probably go," Harry said once more.

"Hm. _Should,_ " the man said, and gave him a thoughtful, curious look. "That's what you've said, three times now. _You should probably go_. _Should_ , like you don't want to, _probably_ , like you don't know for sure."

Harry frowned, and the man stepped a bit closer. "No place to go, no one to go to, no plan either I should think, and you think you _should probably go_ ," the muggle recited while tapping his lips thoughtfully with his fingers. "Curious."

"Alright. I _need_ to go," Harry corrected himself, frown turning to a scowl.

"Oh, it's too late for that. Three times the charm," the man said, breaking into a smile. "Stay a while. I insist. You are in terrible need of a bath, and it will take a while longer before your clothing dries – and my eldest son is eagerly waiting to meet you. And I would so hate to deprive him that chance."

"I… really shouldn't," Harry muttered, though his stomach twisted anew at the thought of a shower, of a break, of clean clothing. Of staying here, in this calm, quiet space where he didn't need to run or fight, a little longer.

"I insist," the man said again, and then blinked. "And where are my manners?" he asked with a slight roll of his eyes – directed at himself, not at Harry – and held out his hand. "Sherringford Holmes, at your service. It is quite a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr…?"

Harry hesitated and then sighed. "Harry Potter," the wizard answered, and took the hand. It was warm, steady, strong, but not too tight. When had been the last time he had shaken hands with anyone? "I… Thank you for taking me in and taking care of me," he added awkwardly, while they shook. "I'm sorry for being…"

"It's quite alright, I assure you," the man, Holmes, answered with an even wider smile as they dropped their hands. "Would you like some tea?" he offered suddenly.

"I'd… I'm not sure if I can fit it, but I'd love some," Harry admitted.

"Well then, come right this way – do bring your fascinating effects with you, if you wish to do so," Holmes said, and turned to the door. "And don't mind my son, Mycroft. He is a… special sort of child."

"I'm sure he's fine," Harry answered awkwardly while shoving his things into the pockets of the night robe. Then he followed the man out the room and into a corridor, looking around curiously. He could remember the front of the house, the tall windows and the warm glow, but all of a sudden he wasn't sure about how many floors it had – or how far left or right it had gone. All he could remember was the front, and the door, and the windows…

The staircase leading down answered the question about floors, and the corridors leading away from it covered the question about the extent. It wasn't a house – it was a _mansion_. A fair sized one, judging by the turns they took and the enormous dining room they ended up in.

"I will be just a moment," Holmes said, as Harry looked around the long room – no, _hall_ , it was definitely a dining hall. It had a table big enough for a dozen people, and no less than three crystal chandeliers hanging above it. Everything was impeccably decorated and cleaned, though there was something about the place that told Harry the place, despite its grandeur and size, lacked something. He wasn't sure what, though.

Then something on the long dining table called for his attention, and he walked closer. There was a copy of the Daily Telegraph there, sitting beside a few other papers. A bit unsure of the date, Harry reached for the paper – and then stared at it with dull disbelief.

12th of May, 1980.

"I'm afraid my tea making skills are in no way any better than my cooking skills," Holmes said as he returned with yet another tray, just as Harry managed to unclench his fingers just enough to reach for the other papers, the Daily Mail being the next. "But I think it should be recognisable as tea at any rate – Harry? Harry, is something wrong?"

 Harry compared the papers. They looked authentic, despite their dates. One had the front article about some politician, other about something that had happened in Saudi Arabia. Only when Holmes lowered the tray and touched Harry's shoulder did the wizard look up, shaking like a leaf. "These papers. They're from today?" he asked, not quite believing.

"Yes? Is there something the matter with them?" the man asked worriedly, glancing at them. "Or… have you lost days?"

Harry blinked and then looked back down. He had lost _years_ was what he had lost. Approximately eighteen of them. He swallowed, and forced himself to release his death grip on the newspapers. "No," he answered. "It's nothing at all."

Well, he thought, while Sherringford Holmes kept looking at him worriedly. It explained why the Death Eaters hadn't come after him yet.

"You're white as a sheet. Perhaps you should sit down?" the muggle said, and pulled out a chair. Wordlessly, Harry sank down, and did nothing to stop the man as Holmes poured him some tea. "Here, drink this," the man urged. "I’ll get you something salty to eat. We should have some snacks here – it won't take a moment."

"That's okay. I'm not going anywhere," Harry answered, running a hand over his face, almost knocking his glasses off. He re-adjusted them, pulling back his – rather grimy – hair, and then looked back down to the newspapers.

They still told him the same thing. 12th of May, 1980.

Maybe it was some sort of elaborate joke? Or a trick, an illusion – a hallucination, anything? There had been nothing to explain it, just him running for his life, desperately trying to get away, just away, anywhere at all… it didn't explain this. It had to be some sort of trickery. He couldn't see what anyone could hope to achieve with it, but… surely it couldn't be real.

Right?

Harry stared at the papers for a little longer, before a noise by the door alarmed him – a whimpering sound not all unlike the cry of a baby. Frowning, he turned, and came face to face with a chubby, dark haired little boy, holding an infant in his arms. The boy stared at him expressionlessly, while patting the back of the baby in his arms, trying to quiet the child down no doubt.

"Uh. Hi?" Harry offered awkwardly.

"Hello," the boy answered, taking in Harry's clothing and then glancing towards the kitchen before speaking again. "It is good to see you awake and aware. How are you feeling, sir?"

"I'm… fine. A bit battered," Harry answered a bit bemusedly – the kid couldn't be older than eight, if even that, and yet he spoke like that, like an adult. Awake and aware, what kind of kid spoke like that? The kid said nothing more, though, just stared at Harry, apparently waiting for him to continue, and awkwardly Harry did. "You must be Mr. Holmes's son?" he asked.

"Yes. My name is Mycroft," the boy answered, and then seemed to deem Harry safe enough to approach. "This is my younger brother Sherlock – he's twenty six weeks old," he added, nodding at the infant in his arms. "Might I inquire as to your name, sir?"

"It's Harry Potter," the wizard answered, and looked up rather relieved, when he heard the muggle man returning.

"Ah, Mycroft. I see Sherlock's awake," the eldest of the three Holmeses said, setting the bowl of snacks in front of Harry before walking to the boys and taking the infant from the elder boy's arms. He did it rather awkwardly, clumsily supporting the child's head as the little boy whined, flinging his little fists about. "Hello there, Sherlock," the man said, with smile which was almost like a grimace.

"I believe he requires to be changed, father," Mycroft said, still looking at Harry.

"Yes, he does smell like it, doesn't he," the man answered and sighed, turning to Harry. "Would you mind terribly waiting a moment, Harry?"

"No, not really," Harry said, and with a grateful nod the muggle man quickly carried the little boy away, leaving Harry alone with Mycroft. "He's quiet, your brother," Harry remarked. "I thought babies that young get a bit noisy when they are wet."

Mycroft gave him an odd, mixed expression. "Sherlock knows better," he answered almost imperiously, while walking closer and sitting down – or lifting himself up – to the chair beside Harry's. "He's perfectly aware of the fact that he will be changed regardless of the fact if he screams or not. He only screams when he gets bored."

"… Really?" the wizard asked a bit helplessly, not sure what else to say. "That sounds… unusual."

"Only to usual people," Mycroft answered while reaching to make himself a cup of tea. Harry watched him with a mingled bafflement and amazement, as the little boy poured the tea and then sat back, holding the cup like a proper Englishman. "So, Mr. Potter. Why did you collapse at our doorsteps, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Harry's just fine," the wizard said, but the boy didn't answer, making him frown a bit. "Did you see that?" he asked then. "When I passed out?"

"Mm, yes. Father and I were practicing when you rang the doorbell," the boy said calmly, leaning back and sipping his tea.

"Huh. That must've been a shock," Harry muttered, and took a sip of his own cup. Mycroft didn't act particularly shocked. Or even interested.

"I'm glad you came to, however. Especially since father deigned not to call the police," Mycroft said, and glanced at Harry thoughtfully.

"You think he should've?"

"A person who has obviously gone through some sort of terrible ordeal, who passes out from hunger on one of the wealthiest streets in London? In this modern day and age?" the little boy shook his head. "Obviously the police should've been informed. Though considering those items in your possession…"

Harry lifted an eyebrow at the boy. "How _old_ are you?" he asked a bit suspiciously.

"My age is in no way identification of my maturity or intelligence," Mycroft answered primly.

"Obviously not your intelligence. I'll hold my judgement on your maturity, though," Harry answered, turning to face the papers. "I've met young intelligent people before – most of whom faked maturity for as long as I knew them without actually possessing it."

Mycroft scowled at him, but said nothing, merely sipped his tea. Harry glanced at him and smiled, unable to help himself – the kid was pouting, and finally looked something like his age. Looking away quickly, not wanting the boy to catch his smile, Harry turned his attention to the newspapers. "Your brother, you said he was twenty six weeks?" he asked, reaching for the closest one and opening it. It had the same date on each page.

"Yes," Mycroft answered while giving him a sideways look.

"So, he was born in December, nineteen seventy nine?" the wizard asked as casually as he could.

"Obviously," the boy answered with a mild scowl.

"Hmm," Harry answered, to cover the fact that he hadn't really been getting to anything with the question. It did worry him, though. Of course, Mycroft, Sherringford, Sherlock, all of it could be just part of the illusion, but… it wasn't _normal_ enough for that. If, for whatever reason, some Death Eater would've dreamt up a scenario like this, they would've made Mycroft… normal. And probably rather stupid. A as boy intelligent as Mycroft – a genius most likely… well, it was a bit too complex to be a Death Eater's invention.

He still had his doubts, but for now he could continue under the assumption that what he perceived now was actually real. He did need to check things out, though. Diagon Alley, if nothing else. That would tell him if it was true or not.

As Harry wondered how safe it was to have a go at the magical shopping street, Mr. Holmes returned with his youngest son. "My apologies," the man said, while the little boy in his arms, dangling a bit awkwardly from them, yawned at Harry. "I do hope I didn't keep you waiting."

"Not at all, Mr. Holmes," Harry answered, closing the paper he hadn't really been reading anyway.

"Sherringford, please," the man answered, and glanced at his eldest son. "Mycroft, could you please get a bottle for your brother?"

"Yes, father," the boy said and slid down from his chair. "Shall I heat it for you?"

"Yes, thank you," the man said, and then sat down. "My apologies, once more," the man said. "I'm afraid my hands are quire full with tending to my sons most of the time."

Harry looked at him and then shook his head, confused. "You know, I don't think you should be doing this," he said thoughtfully. "Taking me in, treating my wounds, okay, I can buy that, some people are decent enough to do that. Not turning me in to the police on the account of my things, I can see that too. But apologising to me – and worse yet, leaving me alone with your son like that? You don't know me. For all you know, I could be a serial killer."

"Are you?" Sherringford asked, lifting his eyebrows.

"Well, no. But I could be," Harry answered.

"I think I am a better judge of character than that – and very few people can put their actor's faces on when they've freshly awoken," the muggle man answered. "And besides, Mycroft always carries a bottle of mace and a knife laced with a quick sedative, plus he can make quite a bit noise if he wants to."

"… Really?" the wizard asked, not really surprised that the boy would be intelligent enough to be so prepared, but that Sherringford felt the need for something like that in his home.

The man shrugged. "I am somewhat wealthy and though the boys never really leave the house, there is always that risk. The ransoms someone could demand – especially for a boy like Mycroft? Well. It is better to be prepared than caught unawares, don't you agree?"

"I guess that makes sense," Harry murmured. It was surprising, though. And a little alarming.

And more or less completely beside the point. "I really should go," Harry muttered, thinking of the time – he needed to verify that. And plan what he would do afterwards, right now he had no idea. He had no money, no place to go if this was the time he thought he was, no one to turn to – God, if he turned to someone he might get turned over to the ministry of magic and then he'd be whisked to the bowels of the Department of Mysteries and never seen again.

"That again," Sherringford said idly, looking up as Mycroft returned with a bottle of milk for his youngest son. "Thank you, Mycroft," the man said, and then arranged the babe in his arms to better feed the boy – who, despite having been silent most of the time, accepted the teat with the sort of hunger that made Harry wonder if the kid was starved after all.

"You know what I think?" the man asked, while Harry watched the process with a sort of jealousy he couldn't explain. When Harry didn't answer, Sherringford glanced up and then away, back at Sherlock. "You're nervous, worried, you feel like you shouldn't be here, obviously, and there is some guilt in that. You aren't certain whether you are in danger anymore, whether you being here puts _us_ in danger. There is someone after you, obviously, several someone's, except… maybe not, anymore. You might've escaped, though you aren't certain. On top of that, there is something you need to do, but you are worried and a bit reluctant. Whatever it is, it is important and conflicting and you aren't certain if you can handle it. Or what you will do with it.

"I cannot with any certainty say what your troubles are, but they must be extraordinary in nature. Just the odd invisibility garment you have, the other things you possess, as well as your wounds, prove that. Whatever it is, it is… special, and perhaps even somewhat unnatural from my own point of view," Sherringford said, and glanced sharply at Harry. "And," the man continued, narrowing his eyes and reading something right from Harry's face. "I'm not supposed to know this – you're not supposed to tell me. That worries you most of all. A confidentiality contract perhaps? No, something much more severe."

Harry frowned, opening his mouth to say _something_ , but the elder male continued before he could. "So. You _should go_ as you keep saying, you feel it your duty to leave – but I don't think you _want_ to leave. Tell me, Harry. When was the last time you slept on a real bed? Been inside a real house?"

Harry closed his mouth. The last time had been at Shell Cottage – eighteen years into the future, a week and a half into Harry's own past. "Even if that is all true, it doesn't change anything," he said.

"Hm. It does a bit, I think," Sherringford said. "Would you like a shower? Mycroft, could you show our guest to the larger bathroom? There should be some clean towels there, as well as another bath robe if you wish to change."

"Yes, father," Mycroft, who had been staring at his father with undisguised jealousy too, but which seemed to have nothing to do with the babe the man was feeding, said, and turned to Harry. "Please come this way."

Harry hesitated, staring at Sherringford, trying to figure out what the man wanted – and how the hell he had figured all that out. How had he given so much away? Well, the bruises, the items, those were a given - but did he really show his emotions so openly, the nervousness? "Are you a psychologist?" Harry asked suspiciously…

"Oh, good God, no. I am a violinist and a pianist, I play in an orchestra," the man answered with a scoff. "Now go and enjoy your bath," he added, lowering the half empty milk bottle that his youngest son was now rejecting. "I must fetch a towel and burp my son. Excuse me."

Harry stared after the man, as Sherringford walked back to the kitchen, carrying the black haired babe with him. Then, shaking his head, Harry turned to Mycroft. "Your father is a bit unusual too, isn't he?" he asked.

"My father is one of the most brilliant men in the world," the boy answered, sounding split between admiration and annoyance. "Well, in some things at any rate. Do you want me to show you to the bath now, or later?"

"Now's fine," Harry sighed and stood up, following the kid out of the room and to the hall, from where they went down a corridor. "How did he know those things?" Harry asked, when they arrived at the bathroom. It was enormous – it had a small _pool_ in it, as well as four different showers. Harry hadn't seen such a big bathing place since breaking into the Prefect's bathrooms at Hogwarts during his fourth year.

"He observes. People give themselves and their thoughts away in millions of ways, and Father is expert at reading people," Mycroft answered. "I can do it too, to a small extent, but it will take me years to become as proficient at it as father is."

"But you intend to learn the trick," Harry mused, glancing at the kid. "What can you tell me about me?" he asked curiously.

"I know that you haven't had a bath in approximately ten days," the boy answered, giving Harry a mild scowl. "So please well free to use _plenty_ of soap and even more shampoo. Now, you will find towels there, the bathrobes are there, and there are varieties of hygiene products in that cupboard over there."

"Alright, thank you," Harry nodded.

"Good, enjoy your bath, Mr. Potter," Mycroft said with a nod, turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Harry alone in the splendour of the enormous bathroom.

He considered taking this opportunity to leave – he had everything with him, sort of, and if this was where and when he thought he was, well, he could always get new clothing and besides, his robes had seen better days. But… it _had_ been ten days since he had last seen a bathroom, not to mention about making proper use of one. And it would give him time to think and plan how to proceed.

So, glancing around, Harry took off the robe, and made to make full use of the facilities offered to him. It would be a bit tricky with all the bandages – but he had done trickier things, and really, none of his wounds were that bad.

When he re-emerged half an hour and a thorough scrubbing later, he had something of a plan. Diagon Alley would obviously be his first goal – he would need to get his clothing of course, but a spell would be enough to dry them and then he'd be good to go. If it came to it, he could use the Invisibility Cloak to travel about unnoticed – and he had the Elder Wand too, that would help him too. At Diagon Alley, he would need to figure out what the right time was, if he really was in the past and what he would do, what he could do.

It was more of a plan than anything he’d had since the battle of Hogwarts had been lost. Now all he needed to do was politely excuse himself, somehow.

"Mr. Holmes?" Harry asked as he returned to the dining room, to find the man reading a newspaper while little Sherlock slept in a baby rocking chair on the floor, gently rocked by the man's foot every now and then.

"Sherringford," the man corrected, glancing up and smiling. "You look much better. I hope none of your injuries got agitated."

"I'm fine," Harry assured and pushed back his wet hair. "It's… not that I don't appreciate this, all of this. Most people wouldn't have done half as much as you and I am really grateful. But I really need to be going. Can I have my clothing now? Please?"

The elder man said nothing for a moment, just looked at him with his impossibly pale grey eyes. Then he turned away. "Very well, if you absolutely insist," he said, and stood up, picking Sherlock up from the rocking chair and resting the baby against his shoulder. "You have a plan now?" he asked, while leading Harry away from the dining hall.

"Something like it," Harry said, glancing at the man. "I would pay you back for what you've done, but I don't really have anything to pay with."

"Hm. Well, perhaps there is something," Sherringford said, and after a couple of corridors, he opened the door to a laundry room, where on a clothes line hung Harry's clothing. "My apologies for not using the drier, but I'm not that fond of ironing," the man said, motioning at Harry's robes. "They are most likely still wet."

"I've had worse than wet, clean clothing," Harry said, stepping closer to his clothes and starting to pull them down. They were more than just a little wet, but a charm would take care of that. "Thank you," he said, after getting them all and wondering where he could change into them.

"You're welcome. As for what comes to the payment you are unable to give, I would like to see you here again – in a couple of days perhaps – for dinner," Sherringford said thoughtfully, soothing a cautious hand down Sherlock's little back. "I could order catering," he mused, brightening a bit at the concept. "I've had precious little excuse to do that lately."

"What – dinner? Mr. Holm – _Sherringford_ , that's really not necessary," Harry started awkwardly. "You've already done enough."

"Perhaps. But still. In two days from now, around, say, seven p.m.?" the man asked. "Perhaps you have some favourite food, I could arrange to be made. What is it, lasagne perhaps?"

"I don't really have a favourite food, but that's beside the point. You really don't need to – I can manage on my own, seriously. Regardless of the… way things might appear," Harry said.

"I think I would like some lasagne. Not a very posh sort of food I suppose, but I've always rather liked it. I think my mother used to make some excellent lasagne. Or my mother's maid," the man murmured thoughtfully. "Lasagne it is then. How old are you Harry? Should I get some Chianti, hm, perhaps not."

"Sherringford," Harry interrupted the man. "Really. It isn't necessary."

"Obviously not, but I would still rather have you come around for a dinner," the man said, pausing for a moment and then smiling brightly. "I shan't let you refuse."

"I could agree to come and then never show up," Harry answered, but couldn't help but smile in return – the man had an odd, wide and almost boyish smile that fit his elegant manners rather poorly. It fit his handsome face very well though, and the man's grey eyes seemed to shine with mirth.

"Could you really? I think not," Sherringford said, and then bowed down a bit, to get to Harry's eyelevel. "Two days from now, seven p.m. I trust that I will see you here?"

Harry hesitated and then sighed, shaking his head. "If nothing forcibly keeps me away, sure," he said. "Two days from now, seven p.m, here."

"Splendid," the muggle man said triumphantly and then turned. "I shall leave you to re-clothe yourself. And, as inviting as the window might seem, please do not take this as opportunity to escape without so much as a good bye – Mycroft, I imagine, would like to say you farewell."

"Yes, alright," Harry answered, and was then left alone in the laundry room. With a sigh and an exasperated, amused shake of his head, he turned to strip and dress himself in his wet things, shivering a bit as he did and swearing to take the first moment out of the house and out of sight to spell them warm and dry.

He didn't pull the robes on, and instead folded them and hung them on his arm before moving his things – the wand, the cloak, the Mokeskin pouch – from the night robe to his pockets. With that done – and the Invisibility Cloak hidden in the folds of his robes – he turned to leave the laundry room, making his way down the corridor and to the entrance hall, where Mycroft and Sherringford both waited, Sherlock still sleeping in his father's arms.

"Well then," Harry said a bit awkwardly, feeling very out of place in his wet clothing and dripping hair beside their finery – even Mycroft was wearing rich, fine clothing, despite his age.

"Yes, quite. It has been an interesting time, having you here," Sherringford said, holding out his hand. The man's palm was just as warm as it had been the first time Harry had shaken his hand. "Do you think you can make your way without further aid? I can… loan you taxi fare, if you should want it."

"No, thanks, I think I can manage it," Harry said, squeezing the man's hand and turning to Mycroft who was eyeing him without much of an expression. "With all due respect, Mycroft, you're the weirdest kid I've ever met. And I've met an awful lot of weird kids."

"If that is supposed to be an insult, it is a very poor one," the boy answered, with something cold coming into his tone.

"No, it's a compliment," Harry said honestly, and held out his hand. The little boy blinked and then shook it, trying for Sherringford's firmness but not quite achieving – his fingers were too short for that sort of confident grip. Harry smiled, and squeezed the boy's hand before turning to the father.

"Are you sure you will be alright?" Sherringford asked.

"I'll be fine," Harry assured the man, and smiled ruefully. "Thanks for everything. I'll see you – and you," he added, glancing at Mycroft, "in two days. Hopefully."

"Hopefully. You expect further troubles?" Mycroft asked.

"I expect difficulties," Harry shrugged. "But hopefully no one will be trying to kill me this time."

The father and son before him shared a look, but said nothing to that. "Well then. Good luck, with whatever it is that you expect to have difficulties with, Harry," Sherringford said. "And, should you need it, you will find that we have plenty of empty guest rooms to accommodate you."

Harry blinked and then swallowed around the sudden tightness of his throat. "I… thank you. That's kind of you," he said awkwardly. "All the same, I'll try not to need it."

Sherringford nodded, and with that they seemed to have exhausted the goodbyes. Harry nodded at the man once more, then at Mycroft, before turning to the door. "Thank you, again," he said and then determinately made his way out.

He almost wished he could've stayed and forgotten everything. Ron, Hermione, Neville, and everyone else, all the damage and horror and blood. Shut it all out. But… but he couldn't, no matter how tempting it was. He had things to do, places to see, plans to make – this wasn't time to consult his own desires and selfishness.

And he would have the chance to enjoy the comforts of the Holmes household later. "Two days," he murmured, casting a glance at the door of the mansion after closing it behind him. Then, glancing around to make sure that no one was within view, he turned on his heels, and vanished.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry felt drained when he finally found the house of Sherringford Holmes, having made the way on foot rather than risking Apparation so early in the evening in a muggle neighbourhood. It had taken him a while – two hours, actually, Belgravia was a big place – but that wasn't really what had drained him. No, the two previous days had done that.

He felt bone weary, and somehow it was even worse than the ten days of continuous escape, of hunger and pain he had gone through after Hogwarts' fall. He’d had desperation and helpless fury powering him then, a motivation – he'd rather go through hell than make it easy for them – but now…? Now he was just confused.

The year _was_ 1980\. The 14th of May, now, but still 1980. A visit to Diagon Alley had confirmed that – the papers in the Leaky Cauldron and the advertisements on the streets, the people, the creatures. It was eighteen years in the past. Too many details for it to be a trick or hallucination – he couldn't have imagined the brands and advertisements, the news reports and articles in such a detail. It was the past. Some months before his own birth, even.

And despite all the desperate wishes of turning back the clock, from all those many times when he had lost someone and it had seemed like life _couldn't_ go on unless it was undone… now that it _had been_ undone, he had no idea what to do.

Harry swallowed, and then carefully opened the black metal fence that stood guard between the over grown, verdant front yard of the Holmes' house, and Norbury Lane. It wasn't dark enough yet for the house to glow quite the way it had the first time he had seen it, but the glimpses of light he could see through the curtains behind the tall windows were enticing and welcoming.

Staring at the tempting door, Harry hesitated. He honestly hadn't thought he would return. But after two days in Diagon Alley, the first of which was spent in a haze and the second, this day, mostly in odd, dull minded helplessness, the place looked… _felt_ , like a safe harbour. Unlike with Diagon Alley, with the Wizarding world, Harry knew roughly what to expect from the house, from its occupants. He knew that he was welcome there.

The manager of the Leaky Cauldron had been somewhat nice about Harry not being able to buy anything, but he had still been forced to chase Harry out of the pub for the same reason. The shop keepers had more or less done the same, when he had dared to peek into their wares without anything to pay with – though they had done it with less kindness. He hadn't even bothered trying to enter Gringotts, and had spent the rest of the time on the street, first walking about it, exploring and trying to figure out what was going on. He had eventually settled himself in a relatively clean alcove where he could sit on a broken crate, and not be in anyone's way.

The place had offered him very few answers, and the plans he had been hoping to make had all dwindled to nothingness. He knew, somewhat vaguely, that the First War was still in full swing – the darkness of Diagon Alley, the closed shops and barred windows, had stood as testament to that. And so had the suspicious behaviour of the people there, the haste of the few shoppers, and the hostility of the shop keepers – all too adjusted to being screwed over. The place had seemed as distant and hopeless as Diagon Alley had been in the future the last Harry had seen it – and Voldemort wasn't even running things here.

Voldemort was alive, though. Alive, strong, and with plenty of followers, riding on the wave of his supposed immortality. And try as he may, Harry had no idea what to do about that. The same thing he had done in the future? Find the Horcruxes, destroy them, kill Voldemort?

He had no idea where most of them were. The ring, maybe, the Diadem, sure. Was the Locket in Grimmauld Place now, or in the cave, though? What about the Cup, did the Lestranges have it already. Or the Diary? And how could he get them, if they were in the hands of Death Eaters?

And still, somehow, while the fact that he had no idea what to do had choked him, it were the possibilities of what he could do that had strangled him. Eighteen years into the past – God, there was so _much_ he could do. The Horcruxes were just the nexus of it all; the rest of it was the mountain beneath the peak. He could stop his parents from dying, for one, Sirius from being sent to Azkaban, Neville's parents from being tortured into insanity – save who knew how many lives. End the war before it's time, stop the Second War from ever starting. He had the knowledge on how to do it, even if he lacked the minute details – he knew about the Horcruxes after all, he and he alone aside from their maker of course. On top of that, he knew who the key figures among the death eaters were.

He could change the entire course of history, just with what he knew and acting upon it before it's time. But… but.

Harry had no idea where to begin. Worse yet, he knew that if he tried to do something, he'd probably fail due to a simple lack of, well, _everything_. He had no money, no food, no convenient magical tent, nothing. There was the Elder Wand, sure, but it wouldn't make food out of nothing any more than any other wand would, and the Invisibility Cloak wasn't all that warm or water proof. And besides, there were those minute details too. Where to go, what to do precisely, how to do it – and whether or not he even could, if the history would allow it, if he was strong enough, quick enough, smart enough. He might fail during his first attempt of trying _something_ and that would be that.

So… what? Since he lacked everything, should he ask for help? From who? People he knew in the future? Harry knew better than to expect them to be the people he had known – Sirius wouldn't be the man he had helped escape, Remus wouldn't be the man he had yelled at for abandoning his son, and everyone else… well, it was the same thing, wasn't it? His parents were immediately out of the question – he didn't even know them, they didn't know him, they hadn't even _had him_ yet. His mother was pregnant with him right now, and seeing him, hearing him babble about the future… well. Maybe not a good idea.

There was Dumbledore of course, but… Dumbledore was Dumbledore. And Harry couldn't trust his own understanding of the man enough to know if the Headmaster would welcome him with open arms and help him with his plans – or if he would Obliviate Harry and put him living under an assumed name or something, to keep him from interfering with the timelines.

So, he had been 'back' in the magical world for two days now, and what did he have to show for it?

Just that he was starving all over again.

Sighing and feeling like a dog skulking back with its tail between its legs; Harry reached out and rang the doorbell of Sherringford's front door. While waiting for an answer, he resolutely didn't look down – to the very same ragged clothing he had left in. He had rather thought that if he would return, it would be in better clothing – maybe he might've even found a nice muggle button up shirt and some proper trousers. But no, of course not. Hell, he probably looked like he had slept on the streets. Which, granted, he had.

He felt pathetic.

The lock clicked as it was unlocked, and then the door opened, revealing Sherringford Holmes who was wearing a suit jacket and making Harry feel even more pitiful than he already did. The tall, curly haired man blinked at him with surprise, then smiled. "Harry," the man said warmly and stepped aside to let him in. "I'm glad you could make it."

Harry swallowed the urge to bark out a bitter laugh. "Happy to be here," he said instead, forcing a smile, and stepped inside, strangling the urge to bow his head embarrassedly. God, but he hoped he didn't stink.

"I must admit, I wasn't sure if you would show up, you did seem rather reluctant, but let us never mind that," Sherringford said, closing the front door. He gave Harry a considering look, and then smiled a little winder. "The table is set, the food is ready – and quite excellent, I'm sure. Come, come. The appetisers looked rather delightful and I can't wait to try them."

Silently grateful that the man hadn't as much as glanced at his clothing or made any visible notice of his state, the wizard followed the muggle deeper into the mansion and to the dining hall where the table was indeed set – with enough plates to make it seem like Sherringford intended to feed a dozen guests, instead of just one.

"Please, sit down, while I fetch Mycroft and Sherlock," Sherringford said, motioning at the table. "And do have some of the bread. I admit I tasted some of it, and it was wonderful."

With that said, the man seemed to whirl around, and then Harry was alone in the dining hall, feeling oddly dizzy. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but to be rushed to the dinner table so fast wasn't it, not quite. Sherringford – and Mycroft too – felt like the sort of person who would have elegant pre-dinner small talk or something. Being ushered through the door and to the table was a bit sudden.

It didn't stop Harry from hanging his robe onto the backrest of one of the chairs, before sitting down and reaching for one of the fat slices of bread eagerly. He hadn't eaten since the last time he had been in the mansion, after all, though he seriously wished that it wasn't too obvious. It probably was, and all he could hope at this point was that he wouldn't wolf down the rest of the food like an idiot.

"… a bit unusual, is all I am saying," Mycroft's voice intruded upon Harry's thoughts, and quickly the wizard swallowed the bite he had just taken, straightening his back and trying for a less desperate expression. "If nothing else, shouldn't we go about setting the food down before –" 

The boy halted slightly by the door, blinking at Harry while Sherringford merely smiled, carrying and grumpily frowning Sherlock in his arms. "Ah," Mycroft then said, and smiled in a way which was more polite disregard than honesty. "Hello, Mr. Potter. Lovely to see you again."

"You too, Mycroft. And it's still Harry," the wizard answered, and tried to hide his dismay. What was he even doing here, seriously? Even Mycroft was wearing a full suit, for pity's sake.

"How do you like the bread, Harry?" Sherringford asked, exchanging a glance with his eldest son while setting the younger one into a high chair.

"It's good," Harry said, trying not to squirm, feeling more awkward by the moment.

"Well, do finish your slice," Sherringford said. "Mycroft, do give me a hand. Let us get the soup."

"Yes, of course," the boy said and calmly followed his father out of the dining hall and into the kitchen, leaving Harry uneasy and a bit wary – and alone with a little six month old baby, who was frowning at him.

"You wouldn't happen to know what I'm doing here?" Harry mouthed silently at Sherlock, who screwed his little face into a scowl. Harry had to smile a bit at that, and while Sherlock kept on scowling at him like his very presence was insulting the baby, Harry finished his slice of bread as ordered.

He was just finished when Sherringford carried out a silver tray, on which three elegant soup bowls sat, a smaller cup holding something else in between them. "Here you are," the man said, laying the first bowl in front of Harry, before going about setting the others down as well – the cup went in front of Sherlock, who turned his scowl at it. As Sherringford set the tray aside, Mycroft entered, carrying a basket of different bread.

The kid served Harry some, without asking for permission – as three slices of the bread were set on a small plate near Harry, the wizard glanced between Sherringford and Mycroft a little suspiciously. He couldn't help but notice that his soup plate was the fullest, and that Mycroft didn't set quite as much bread down for himself or his father.

"Please, try the soup," Sherringford said while he and Mycroft sat down as well, ignoring Harry's confused frown and merely smiling at him. "One wouldn't want the food to get cold. Go on." And then the man just stared at him, smiling pleasantly and waiting until Harry awkwardly did as ordered and took the spoon.

Only once he seemed satisfied that Harry was eating did Sherringford try his own soup, and Mycroft followed suite. The soup was pretty near the best Harry had ever tried, but the atmosphere made eating it a bit awkward – especially since the atmosphere itself _wasn't_ awkward or uneasy or anything like that. If anything, it was the most pleasant, amiable start to a meal he had ever had, except for the fact that Harry was sure he was ignoring half a million etiquette rules, and Mycroft and Sherringford were both knowingly ignoring him.

Desperately not wanting to think about it, which was getting harder as the silence stretched while they ate, Harry glanced around for something, anything, to distract him. His eyes stopped at Sherlock who, shockingly enough, was holding a spoon and was eating along with the rest of them – albeit, his spoon was yellow and plastic, and his efforts somewhat clumsy. But still. The kid was actually eating by himself.

"Smart kid," Harry remarked, unable to help himself.

"Yes, I'm afraid he grew tired with my and Mycroft's attempts at feeding him a month or so ago, and took matters into his own hands. And yet, he won't drink milk without help," Sherringford said, giving Sherlock a fond, exasperated look. The kid scowled back, brandishing his yellow spoon like a weapon for a moment.

"We're expecting him to start speaking any day now," Mycroft remarked idly, taking a sip of water.

"Really? Isn't he a bit too young?" Harry asked, though he wasn't sure. He supposed it could be very well possible for kids to start mumbling words at Sherlock's age, but he rather doubted that was what Mycroft meant by _speaking_.

"Mycroft started talking around that age as well, though it took him a year or so to grow properly fluent," Sherringford said, turning back to his food. "We shall see with Sherlock – he's development has already proved different on several points, but that might be due to difference in…" he paused to search for a word, an odd look crossing over his face, "…teaching methods," he finally said.

Harry raised his eyebrows, then glanced at Mycroft. "Talking by the age of half a year. Good job," he congratulated the boy.

Mycroft frowned, looking at him oddly – almost as if unsure if he had been complimented or insulted. "Thank you," he finally said.

They finished the soup, which Harry thought to be the end of the meal. But it wasn't. After Mycroft and Sherringford had taken the dishes away – ignoring Harry's offers to help – they carried in the actual food. It was some sort of fancy type of pasta Harry might've seen on the telly once when he had been younger, but which the Dursleys had of course never even considered trying.

"Dig in, please," Sherringford urged Harry, and again stopped to wait while Mycroft did the same.

"Do I really look that hungry?" Harry asked with a sigh.

Sherringford hesitated and Mycroft cleared his throat. "Yes," the boy said plainly. "You do."

Harry winced a little and looked down at his food while across the table Sherringford gave his son a glance. "I suppose," the muggle man started cautiously, "those difficulties you mentioned did occur."

The wizard smiled wryly and shook his head. "It wasn't as bad as I thought," he mused. No one had out right attacked him or even yelled at him that much, which was a bit of a relief – and he hadn't needed to hide or anything. He just… had no money, which was causing all the problems, and really, he could've had worse troubles. Like being stranded eighteen years in the past, but that was beside the point.

"You haven't eaten since you left us and you slept on the street," Mycroft pointed out, making Harry lift his head sharply. The boy lifted one eyebrow at him, looking remarkably like someone much older for a moment. "I'd loathe to think what you consider bad."

"Mycroft," Sherringford scolded his son softly, but he too was looking at Harry searchingly. He hesitated for a moment, before setting his fork and knife down and leaning back in his chair. "What is your current situation, Harry?" he asked seriously.

"It's… nothing you really need to worry about," the wizard answered uneasily.

"I would still like to know," Sherringford stated calmly and stared at him until Harry was shifting awkwardly in his seat. "What damage could it cause, to tell us?" the muggle man asked after a moment of uneasy silence.

"Nothing, I guess," Harry muttered and sighed. "I guess I don't wish to impose."

"By all means, impose. We are quite able to decide how we react to your imposing," Sherringford said with a small but mirthless smile.

Harry answered the smile and then shook his head and motioned at himself, at the robes hanging from the backrest of his chair. "This is everything I own, currently. I have no place to go, no one who would help me, and no money," he admitted finally. "No one's after me at the moment, though, which I count as good thing."

He considered it for a moment. When he put it into words, it sounded bad – but it also gave it an odd sort of tangibility that made it easier to handle it. There were things he needed to, wanted to do – something about the war, before it destroyed his life, maybe, though he had no idea how he could go about it at the moment. With no money… "I suppose I need to get a job," he mused, more to himself than to Sherringford or Mycroft.

"Are you likely to find a suitable one?" Sherringford asked thoughtfully.

"Hm. Probably not," Harry muttered. He had no school records in this time, neither magical nor muggle, so… yeah, it would be a bit difficult. He shrugged. "I'll figure something out," he said, which was easier to say, now that his stomach was no longer complaining of utter starvation.

Harry was about to continue eating and making sure that his stomach would have nothing more to complain about for a long while, when an unholy ruckus broke out on the other side of the table. Sherlock, who was finished with his food and had been scowling at all of them, decided to start screaming, startling all three of them.

"Oh, bother," Sherringford said and stood up, Mycroft doing the same, while Harry stared at the baby in open astonishment – the baby, so quiet and calm until now, was making more noise than an average fire alarm.

"Where the bloody hell does he keep that voice?" Harry asked.

Neither Sherringford nor Mycroft answered, too busy trying to get the boy to quiet down. While Sherringford took Sherlock into his arms, Mycroft tried to catch the boy's interest with his fingers, and by producing a colourful cube from somewhere in his pocket which, Harry noticed, had sections that flipped and turned rather like in a Rubix cube. The baby seemed to have no intention of quieting down or letting himself be distracted, as he wailed at Mycroft and waved his fists at Sherringford.

"I am really sorry about this," Sherringford said, turning to Harry who was watching the noisy, fruitless proceedings with interest. "I think I need to take Sherlock to his room and try and entertain him with some of his newer toys. Could you wait for a moment?"

"Is he really wailing because he's _bored_?" Harry asked with mixed incredulity and amazement.

"Yes," Mycroft sighed, running a hand over his neatly arranged hair. "He gets bored on average seven times a day. It can get… loud."

"It was easier when he slept more," Sherringford sighed, leaning his head back a bit to avoid being punched by the baby he was holding. "Excuse me for a moment, would you?"

"Wait, I might have something," Harry said, as an idea came to him. Mycroft and Sherringdord had already seen the Invisibility Cloak, so it couldn't hurt, he though, as he reached for the Mokeskin pouch that he had hidden under his jumper, and pulled it out. From it he produced the feeble snitch from his first official Quidditch game, the one that had opened at the notice of his upcoming death and produced the Ring of Gaunts which Harry had lost somewhere in the Forbidden forest. The snitch he had kept, though, even if it could do little more than weakly flap its mangled wings.

"Here," he said, holding out the golden ball. "Might this work?"

The two Holmeses stared at him with surprise, before Mycroft shifted forward to take the golden, winged ball from Harry's fingers. "What is it?" the boy asked with curiosity, poking at one of the Snitch's wings and watching with interest as the metallic feathers fluttered.

Harry shrugged, leaning his elbows on the table. "It's pretty much outlived its purpose and is no use to anyone," he said. "Try if the kid likes it?"

Mycroft glanced at Sherringford who was leaning in to look at the snitch curiously. Then they presented it to Sherlock, who at first stubbornly kept on screaming, before the gleam of the snitch's wings seemed to catch his eye. What sealed the deal, though, was when Mycroft made to hand it over and released the Snitch a bit too early – it _floated_ down to Sherlock's little hands, rather than just falling like dead weight, leaving the little boy staring at it with open astonishment.

Harry chuckled softly at the expression on the faces of the three Holmeses. "I guess that works, then," he said with amusement.

"I don't suppose it's some sort of machine?" Mycroft asked thoughtfully, while Sherlock turned the snitch in his little hands with shocking care considering his age.

"That's one way of putting it, I guess," Harry answered. "It's no use to me anymore, so Sherlock can just as well keep it. So long as you don't show it to anyone else, I'm technically not supposed to be giving it to… people."

Sherringford turned his eyes to him. "Is it to do with confidentiality, again?" he asked sharply. "Could you get into trouble for it?"

Harry shrugged. The Snitch was pretty much dead – a few more months, and the automaton enchantments would run out completely. After that it would be just a little golden figurine and nothing else. During a time of proper government, the most he would get was a fine for the Snitch, probably. Except he had never seen the wizarding world with a proper government, but that was another thing. "I doubt anyone will ever find out," he said. "Just don't show it as the main attraction in any dinner parties, and I'll be more or less fine."

"Did it ever fly?" Mycroft asked curiously, turning his attention to the ball.

"Yes," Harry answered. "Once."

There was a moment of silence, while the three Holmeses examined the Snitch with open fascination, Sherlock with the most interest seeing that he was the one holding the thing. Then Sherringford straightened up a bit, and settled his youngest son back into the high chair, letting him examine his new toy in peace. "Well," the man said. "I suppose we can continue our meal in peace now."

Which they did. The pasta was finished soon after, and then while Harry finished a piece of bread, Mycroft and Sherringford took the dishes out and brought the dessert in. It was some sort of chocolate cake, except nothing like anything Harry had ever eaten before – and infinitely fancier than any desserts he had eaten, even at Hogwarts. Harry got the biggest slice, he couldn't help but notice, but he said nothing about that. The thin slice Mycroft got for himself did make him raise his eyebrows a bit.

"Not good, is it?" he asked curiously.

"No, that is not it," Mycroft said a bit uneasily while sitting down. "This is merely quite enough for me."

Harry eyed the boy thoughtfully for a moment before glancing at Sherringford who, while setting down a tray loaded with cups and a tea pot, eyed his eldest son with a mixed expression. Turning his attention to his own slice, the wizard couldn't help but wonder if Mycroft was on a diet or something – he was a bit on the heavier side. Just a bit, though – he couldn't hold a candle to Dudley, who at Mycroft's age had been probably three times heavier.

Thinking about that made Harry wonder about some other things. He hadn't really thought about it before, too caught up in his own drama, but Sherringford's family seemed rather small for such a big house. Or was it just the three of them? Did the man have a wife, maybe some other relatives, who just happened to be out at the moment? None of them had mentioned anything like it, but it was entirely possible, wasn't it?

Glancing between Sherringford and Mycroft, he decided against asking. It wasn't any of his business really, and if they thought it was, they probably would've mentioned it already.

"Here you go," Sherringford said, after serving Harry a cup. "Would you like anything else?"

"I've already gotten more than enough," Harry answered. He had been more or less full after the soup, but… well. Food didn't seem like something he could take for granted right now. Or ever again. "Thanks," he added.

Sherringford smiled and after serving Mycroft, he went to take his own seat. "I was thinking about our previous subject of conversation," he said, while bringing his own tea cup closer. "Considering a suitable job for you."

"Hm. What about it?" Harry asked, while carefully cutting a piece of the chocolate cake. His eyes nearly crossed when he tasted it – in the last days, he had almost forgotten what chocolate tasted like.

"I believe you expect difficulties in finding one? Might this be due to lack of… records?"

Harry glanced up, lowering the fork. He lifted his eyebrows a bit. "Yes. How'd you figure that one out?"

"It could be a variety of reasons, and considering everything else a lack of records seemed the most likely," Sherringford answered thoughtfully, eyeing him. "And something about you negates the concept that it would be the lack of ability that would stop you from seeking employment. Would you tell me what sort of skills you possess?"

The wizard hesitated, not sure how to answer that. He obviously couldn't say a thing about his magical abilities, or how those measured up in the grand scheme of things. And his muggle abilities? Most of what he knew about doing muggle things he had learned by doing chores at the Dursleys – which, actually now that he thought about it, was a pretty wide variety. It was nothing that he could make an occupation out of but… "Well," he murmured. "I know a bit of cooking, cleaning, gardening – and I know how to fix pluming and lawn mowers," he answered. "That's about all I can tell you."

Sherringford raised an eyebrow. "It's not all of it?" he asked.

"It's some of it. The rest of it can be chalked up in the same category as my things, and what that," Harry pointed at the Snitch which Sherlock was now experimentally biting, "used to be. So I can't really tell you anything about those abilities."

"Hm, indeed," Sherringford mused, considering it while Mycroft gave Harry a thoughtful sideways look. "So," the muggle man said while stirring his tea absently. "You know the bones of keeping a house."

"Yeah, I suppose that's pretty much it," Harry agreed, taking a sip of his tea. To himself he wondered if muggles still had those sorts of jobs – servants, house keepers, and whatnot. Maybe in really rich households, though he wasn't too sure. He had been living in the magical world for too long – and in rich magical houses, it were the house elves who did the cleaning and cooking.

He probably needed to learn some new skills and fast, unless he wanted to starve. Though that wasn't even nearly the main problem. It was, like Sherringford had said, his lack of records. No birth certificate, no records from any school – hell, he didn't even have an identity in these times. He should probably try and solve that problem first. Except, how, when he had more pressing things to do. Like surviving.

God, how he wished he hadn't lost his things on the run – if he still had that miracle bag of Hermione's, none of this would be a problem.

"Mycroft, why don't you take Sherlock into the sitting room?" Sherringford asked, brining Harry out of his thoughts. "Give him a chance to exercise a bit before he gets tired of sitting."

"Yes, father," the eight year old said, standing up and going to pick up his little brother from the high chair, where Sherlock was now chewing on one of the metallic wings of the Snitch. Soon after, Harry was alone with Sherringford, who was eyeing him thoughtfully.

"Yes?" Harry asked after a long period of silence.

"How serious is your situation, really?" the man asked. "You are no longer chased by… whoever it was that chased you. But you lack funds – and official papers. Aside from that, and from poor prospects as far as chances of finding employment goes…"

Harry shifted where he sat a bit and leaned back. "I wouldn't want to bother you with it. I'll figure something," he said.

"Nevertheless," Sherringford said. "I would like you to tell me. Please."

The wizard hesitated, before shrugging his shoulders. His situation certainly couldn't get any worse by telling. And Sherringford knew enough already that little more didn't really hurt. "There are possibilities, a lot of things I could do," he started, looking at the muggle man. "How much can I trust you?"

"At this point? Completely. I doubt I could find a person who would believe me, if I told them what I've learned of you," the man chuckled softly.

"True enough," Harry muttered with a smile and shook his head. Then he thought his situation through, from start to finish. Now that he was no longer weighed down with hunger and desperation, it was a bit easier. The whole thing was a bit of a chain reaction, really, that had piled up into an unbearable weight on his shoulders. But when he set it in order…

If he got his basics somehow settled – a place to sleep in, food to eat, that sort of thing – everything would eventually get easier. He might even be able to do something good, with what he knew. But settling those basics would be a bit difficult, without official papers or school records – he didn't even exist in this time, not on paper. Without those papers getting a job would be hard, especially one that would pay for board and food. So, first things first, he needed those papers.

Making fakes with magic shouldn't be impossible – but it would be difficult. It would be much easier to Confund his way through every occasion in which they were needed – except in the wizarding world, there that wouldn't work. Maybe a Confundus charm tied to paper, set to pose as those records which he needed? That could work. After that… well, he would need to find that job, obviously. But in the meantime, what would he eat, where would he sleep? He could steal, magic would make that a piece of cake, but he didn't much like that notion…

"It's starting that's the problem, I guess," Harry said after a long moment. "It'll be difficult to try and find a job when I'm too busy trying to survive. And without a job, I won't be able to get money to make my survival easy," he mused and sighed, leaning back. Everything had been so much easier when he had had his family vault to support him. "A place to live in, food to eat, money to pay for it… Living is complicated."

Sherringford chuckled, sipping his tea and then humming thoughtfully. "If you had that start figured out – a job, a place to live in – what would you do then?"

Harry frowned, leaning his head back a bit and staring at the chandeliers thoughtfully. "Some things I can't tell you about," he said finally. He'd try and change the future, any way he could. Stop his parents from dying. Destroy the Horcruxes, Voldemort, bring down the Death Eaters. He might not succeed, but he could try.

"Some things which are dangerous?" Sherringford asked.

"Yes," Harry agreed, and looked down and at the man, who was staring at him seriously.

"Why would you do them then?"

"Because it's necessary. They need to be done," the wizard answered, and straightened on the chair, pushing his now empty tea cup and plate away from him. "Because they will save lives."

Sherringford said nothing for a moment, just looked at him with an unreadable expression. "Harry," the man finally said softly. "Are you a soldier?"

The question threw Harry a bit at first, and then it made him frown. A soldier? Well… not exactly. Except… He frowned and considered it. He had been part of an army – on the losing side, granted, and it hadn't been much of an army, but he had been part of it. For a while, he had even lead it. But a soldier? He wouldn't go that far. Soldiers were disciplined, trained, practiced, and organised. They had been nothing like that.

"I'm more of a… free agent," Harry admitted. "Or a mercenary. Except I was never paid."

Sherringford blinked and then frowned. "Have you ever killed anyone?"

Harry didn't answer that – couldn't, really. He had never had any intentions of killing anyone – but… Quirunus Quirrell had still died at his touch. Tom Riddle's ghost had vanished when he had stabbed the diary. He knew better than to take the responsibility of Cedric's or Sirius's deaths, but… they too had died.

And if he would have the choice now, between killing Voldemort or waiting for those people to die – waiting for his _parents_ to die again – he would rather become a murderer.

So, no, Harry couldn't really think that he hadn't. He had. And he had the potential.

Sherringford said nothing, just eyed him. Then, after a long moment, the man spoke slowly. "One more thing. Are you sure that there is no one after you?" he said, and stood up. "Enemies or allies."

"I'm sure," Harry answered. "At this moment, only you and your family know I even exist."

"Hm. Well then," the muggle man said, drawing a breath and releasing it. "Perhaps I can offer you a place. On the condition that you tell me the moment any of your… trouble might reach our door."

"Sherringford, you really don't need to –" Harry started to object, appalled that he might've somehow, inadvertently, pleaded for charity from the man who had already done more than enough for him.

The man stopped him, holding up a hand. "I am not offering you free aid, not this time," the man said. "I know your pride won't accept it. There is something I need, and right now it seems that you might be a suitable person to supply it."

"And what might that something be?" Harry asked worriedly.

"Well. I need a housekeeper," Sherringford answered, and smiled somewhat morosely. "I don't know how to cook, not well, and my understanding over house work tends to extend to turning a vacuum cleaner on and off. I am… ill-suited for menial tasks, and I rather abhor them," he added, and waved his fingers a bit – a long, delicate pianists hand which Harry admitted probably didn't perform that well with a mop. "Until now I've had a cleaning service come in once a week to clean the mansion, but I dislike having people in whom I do not know. Or trust."

Harry frowned. "I might know how to cook and clean, but not well enough to run a mansion," he said. "And I'm not exactly a gourmet cook."

"If you can, without hesitation, admit that you do know how to cook, then you're already more skilled than I am," Sherringford said, and sighed. "The truth is I am not used to running my own house. My wife used to do that, and I used to… well, do whatever I pleased. Since her death I've done whatever I can, but with less than stellar results, I imagine, and right now…" he shook his head. "It would ease my life greatly just to have someone here; doing the things I have no expertise with. Especially if you would be willing to look after Mycroft and Sherlock while I was away."

Harry lifted his eyebrows at that. "You can't be saying this. Especially after what I told you," he said with disbelief. "I tell you I'm more or less a mercenary, and you offer me a job babysitting your kids? You should be chasing me out, calling the police!"

"Should I?" Sherringford asked and smiled. "I think not. You me tell more about yourself with your gestures and expressions than by what you say, or don't. I know you're a good man. I know you're honourable. You're proud and you're kind, you won't accept charity easily, and you won't resort to crime, not even when it would make your survival so much easier. You might've killed someone, I grant you that, but I also know that you did it for a reason, and that you consider that reason to be just. And I think I've seen enough of you to trust your judgement about what _just_ is."

The wizard swallowed and the muggle chuckled at him quietly. "I know how to read people. Observation and understanding are skills I mastered long before I learned to play any instrument, and they are skills I trust above all others," he said. "And the very fact that your first reaction is to argue against me only proves my opinion of you."

Harry frowned a bit and looked away, torn. It was… well, it was a miracle of an offering, and he would've loved to accept it without a second thought, but… Sherringford had really already done so much for him. And despite everything, it still felt like charity – and he felt like he'd be nothing but a burden.

"How about we put this to a test," Sherringford asked, standing up. "Take one of the guest rooms, live here for a week, and take care of my house – and my children – to the best of your ability. After the week is over, we shall have this conversation again, and if you still feel like you'd rather not accept the job, then we will leave things at that."

For a long while, Harry couldn't answer, too torn between the urge to accept and the guilt for wanting just that. "What about my lack of papers?" he asked then.

"If you choose to stay, we will look into it in a week – I have an excellent lawyer who I think will be most helpful in providing us some advice on that account," Sherringford said, pushing his chair back beneath the table and looking at Harry seriously. "So. What do you say?"

"I… wish I could decline, but I can't," Harry sighed and stood up as well. "I accept."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda doubt this will be updated. If it will be, it won't be anytime soon. I've kinda lost interest in Sherlock since writing this. Sorry :(


	3. Chapter 3

When Harry woke the next morning in the big, soft, rich bed in one of the Holmes house's guest rooms, he spent a moment remarking upon how impossible his situation was. Back in time, without any funds and now about to start his work as the _housekeeper_ of a wealthy muggle family. A muggle family which knew a little bit about his magical nature. A muggle family which had, despite everything, only shown curiosity towards him, instead of the suspicion they _should've_.

Sighing, he ran his hand through his hair and then reached for his glasses on the bedside table. He should've declined, he really should've, but… he couldn't. It was a very strange feeling, to feel guilt for taking a job – especially since he wasn't entirely sure what he was feeling guilty about. It wasn't like he had taken someone else's job, and Sherringford obviously both _needed_ a housekeeper and had the money to pay for it. And Harry had no high hopes for the pay either, it would never be enough to fill his vault the same way the Potter fortune had. What was it then? That he might bring danger to their doorsteps?

In this time, the only trouble he might bring to the Holmeses was the Oblivators, and he hadn't told them enough for that. They knew some, but for them he might as well be a secret government agent or an alien from outer space – or a time traveller from a more advanced future – rather than a wizard.

For a while Harry lay on the bed, under the rich, thick comforter, just staring at the cream coloured ceiling – he had a very nice ceiling light, he noticed, a sort of bowl with gold marking the edge. He considered for a moment burying himself back into the bed and sleeping some more – maybe this odd dream would go away then – but… he rather doubted it. And, despite his own personal objections, worries and guilt, he wasn't a guest here anymore. No, he had a _job_.

So, he sat up, stretching his arms and ran his hands through his hair again. Once he was started, keeping at it seemed easier, and soon after he was out of the bed, the bed was made and he had pulled his rather shabby clothing on – after shooting a few cleaning charms at them. There was a bathroom joined to his room, and he made quick use of it, washing his face a bit while he was at it, and sorting his hair into something like order. Then, with that done, he gave himself a frown through the bathroom mirror. It was a borderline stranger who stared back – the background of a beautiful, almost artistic bathroom with its rich titles and golden metal work, making him look out of place.

"Well then," he muttered. "Let's get to work."

The mansion seemed bigger when he ventured out of the guest room – the halls were long and enormous, decorated by statues and enormous paintings. Everything was very _fine_ , everywhere he looked, from the wall to wall carpeting to the paint and wallpapers, to the ceiling and the many, very beautiful lamps that lit the place. Curious despite himself – and justifiably so, if he was going to be the housekeeper he needed to know these things – he carefully peeked into rooms as he passed them by, finding several more guest rooms, a library, a sitting room with a big fireplace, a couple more bathrooms and then, finally, Mycroft's and Sherlock's room.

It was a very fine room, he noted as he eyed the room thoughtfully. Mycroft was sleeping in a bed not much unlike the one Harry had slept in – a four poster bed better fit for an adult than a little boy. Sherlock lay in a crib, but it was the most beautiful crib Harry had ever seen, made with what looked like gold and porcelain. Around them, the room was wallpapered and sparsely decorated – there was a book shelf and a great mahogany desk, but no toys, no stuffed animals, nothing. Even the mobile above Sherlock's crib looked more like a piece of art, than something made for a baby.

For some reason that made Harry frown. The place looked more like a fancy hotel room, than a place where kids lived. And why was Sherlock in Mycroft's room? There were enough rooms for there to be a proper baby room, surely. And if Sherlock _had_ to be in someone's room, why not in Sherringford's?

Harry considered that for a moment, before a sound coming from the crib caught his attention. While Mycroft sighed in his bed, turning and keeping on sleeping, Harry tiptoed to the crib, to find the little boy lying there perfectly awake – and frowning with deep annoyance. The moment Sherlock saw him, the boy _nailed_ him with his eyes, and then held up his hands demandingly.

Not knowing what else to do, Harry very cautiously wormed his fingers beneath the boy's sides, taking care to fully support his head with the other hand as he lifted the kid up. The baby was heavier than he had suspected, but somehow smaller all at once – warm and a little sweaty after the night and… "Huh," Harry murmured, quickly situating Sherlock so that the boy could lie against his chest, and testing the kid's bottom. Yeah, he definitely needed a change.

After a moment of hesitation – because he had never handled a baby before, not really, and it wasn't something one could experiment with – Harry turned and carried the kid out of the bedroom. No experience or not, he just couldn't _leave_ the kid like that, wet and no doubt uncomfortable. It just wasn't something he could do. So, figuring that he might as well get started on that too seeing that it would probably be part of his duties anyway; he set out to find a place where they kept Sherlock's things.

He found them in the next room – there was a nursing table with drawers full of nappies, some stuff Harry wasn't sure the purpose of, as well as a lot of clothing for Sherlock. There was also a small bookshelf full of baby care books, no doubt for Sherringford's and Mycroft's benefit.

"Mind waiting a moment, little one?" Harry asked, after lying Sherlock on the nursing table. The baby sighed, but made no further objection as Harry went to quickly check out the shelf, finding several books that boasted that they could help. He ended up selecting the most worn one, figuring that it was the one the other Holmeses had used the most, and would probably prove to be the most useful one. And it did.

It took him about twenty minutes to change Sherlock, going back and forth between the book's instructions, the baby, and the supplies in the nursing table. He had never figured that there'd be so much work involved in changing a baby – or that there'd be ointment and powder and god only knew what else – but apparently it was all necessary. Sherlock was thankfully a patient test subject for him, only grumbling a bit when Harry nearly got the order wrong, but in the end appearing somewhat satisfied with the result.

"Well, that wasn't so bad. Mind you, I'm damned grateful that you didn't go number two in the night, because that would've been a hell of a start for me," Harry muttered, after bundling the soiled nappy and dropping it into the lidded bin. "Probably shouldn't swear in front of you, though. Sorry about that." As he re-clothed the boy into a clean jumpsuit, he figured that in the end it probably wouldn't have mattered _that much_. He had dealt with worse than a baby's bodily functions.

With Sherlock thus cared for, Harry eyed the baby for a moment in indecision – should he take the boy back to his crib? Probably not, the kid might get bored and wake Mycroft up. And didn't babies get hungry often? Quickly he glanced at the baby book, confirming that, and decided that he might as well finish what he started. So, he lifted Sherlock up to his shoulder, tucked the baby book beneath his arm, and went to find the kitchen.

There he found an utter disaster. The kitchen was big, very well equipped, with plenty of counter space and a couple of tables in between, with two fridges and freezers, a dishwasher, and a whole counter full of other electronics and appliances, while on the shelves above them there was enough space for a cart load of pots and pans – it looked rather like the kitchen of a small restaurant, rather than that of a house.

The problem with it was the fact that it was a complete mess. There was a near tower of dishes in the sink, the counter space was taken by trays and plates and boxes – the remains of the last night's dinner still in their containers, in which they had no doubt been delivered to the house. And of course, the counter space, the stove and everything in between was coated with a small layer of what would've been food, if it had made it to the pot – or out of it. The stove was the worst – it was obvious that something had boiled over, several times in a row.

"Well. Now I see why he needs a housekeeper," Harry muttered and glanced at Sherlock who was staring at his glasses like they held the key to understanding everything. "Your father should not be legally allowed into kitchens."

The little boy didn't answer, not that Harry expected him to, and with a sigh and a shake of his head, Harry set out to find what to feed the kid. He found several boxes full of baby formula in one of the – very messy – fridges, and thankfully the little cartons all had instructions on how to prepare the stuff. Not entirely sure if the baby bottles on the shelves were as clean as they ought to be, Harry took out his wand. "Let's keep this between us, alright, Sherlock?" he asked, while magically sterilising a handful of them, before going about preparing the formula.

After heating the bottle and testing the warmth like the guidelines ordered, Harry quickly turned Sherlock to a better position on his lap, and the offered the teat to the boy who accepted it without fuss. While Sherlock suckled, Harry turned his attention to the baby book, reading a little ahead quickly to make sure he wouldn't be making any big mistakes, before sitting down to wait for the boy to finish.

It was oddly… soothing. His mind was still a bit of a chaos after Hogwarts, after running, after time travel and after Diagon Alley. But here, in the messy kitchen feeding a little boy and doing nothing else, it was… better. Harry felt a little like there was some sense in the world after all. Which was more than a bit strange, considering that he had never fed a baby before, but still.

"This is not so bad," he said conversationally. "But I suppose I've always had a knack for things like these." The Dursleys never would've bothered chucking all their chores at him if he had been _bad_ at them – no, he had always been better in the kitchen than Petunia had been, more at home there even at the tender age of six. And, if he was honest about it, if it hadn't been so mandatory and enforced with the way the Dursleys always enforced things, he might've actually enjoyed the chores.

 Harry smiled absently at that, wondering if he might actually enjoy being a housekeeper for a while. As he did, Sherlock stared up at him with wide, serious eyes. The kid had his father's eyes, the wizard noted, though with some minute differences. Sherlock's were more colourful, still incredibly pale, but with green and blue and the tiniest bit of brown thrown in, rather than pure grey like Sherringford's eyes.

"Done?" Harry asked, when Sherlock pushed the teat out of his mouth. "Alright then," the wizard muttered, and then reached for a dish towel, putting it onto his shoulder the way the book instructed, before going about trying to get Sherlock to burp – which the kid did with admirable compliance, though looking rather disgusted about it. "Good job," Harry commented, and Sherlock glared at him in answer.

Chuckling softly, the wizard fetched the baby rocking chair for the dining room's corner, and carried it to the kitchen, setting Sherlock to it. "You're going to have to sit still for a moment, while I go about sorting out the mess your father made," Harry said, taking a wand and quickly glancing about until his eyes caught the sight of a spoon lying on the floor nearby. Quickly summoning it, Harry considered it for a moment before turning it into the most complex silver rattler he could manage, trying to make it the most interesting baby toy he could make.

"Here. Entertain yourself for a while, alright,?" he said, handing the rattler to Sherlock who accepted it, the frown fading and being replaced by open curiosity. The boy shook the rattler experimentally, and then with more enthusiasm when it let out the sound of silver bells – making Harry quickly add a cushion charm to the thing. It wouldn't bode well for his future in the household, if Sherlock knocked himself out with the toy Harry had made, after all.

With that done, and Sherlock suitably entertained, Harry turned to the mountain of dishes. Sighing and shaking his head at foolish, kitchen inept muggles, he rolled up his sleeves and got to work.

He was scrubbing the stove with a piece of soapy steel wool while the dishwasher was on its second batch, when someone practically burst into the kitchen. Almost jumping with surprise, Harry turned to face Mycroft, who was still wearing his pyjamas and had a rather alarmed look on his face. "Mr. Potter, have you –" the boy started, then noticed Sherlock in the rocking chair – Sherlock, who was grinning to himself while turning the rattler in his hands, trying to figure out all the sounds it made. "Oh," Mycroft said, slumping down a bit. "Oh, thank God."

"Good morning Mycroft," Harry offered with some confusion and then blinked with realisation. "Oh. _Oh_ , sorry. I peeked into your room earlier and Sherlock was already awake and I figured that I might as well take care of him before getting to work," he said. "I didn't mean to alarm you."

"Yes, well," Mycroft said, taking a deep breath and sighing heavily, obviously trying to calm his own heartbeat. "Good God, that scared me."

Harry grimaced guiltily. "Why don't you sit down, while I make you some tea?" he asked, and the boy sat down in the chair beside Sherlock's rocking chair without objection, while the wizard went about getting the promised tea. "It's your job looking after Sherlock, then?"

"In the mornings and during the night, yes. Father is a very heavy sleeper," Mycroft said, running a hand through his black hair, which was still messy after sleep. "Should something happen overnight, Father would most likely sleep right through it."

"Ah," Harry answered, while taking of the now clean tea cups and plates, and fixing the tea. That explained why the boys shared a room. Not the lack of toys, though, but maybe they were in a different room. He still had most of the house to explore.

As they waited for the water to boil, Mycroft looked down at his little brother, who had now discovered that different sides of the rattler made different noises. "Where did he get that toy?" the elder Holmes asked curiously, and glanced up at Harry.

"I'd tell you but then I'd have to kill you," Harry answered flatly, and grinned at the way Mycroft's face tightened. "It's a joke," the wizard said.

"… Do you often tell jokes?" the boy asked suspiciously.

"Sometimes. Not very good ones, I admit. I fear I'm better at snap fire sarcasm," Harry admitted, thinking about it. "I'll try and tone it down if it bothers you."

"That isn't it, it's just… I don't have much experience with jokes," Mycroft confessed with a frown.

"Why not?" the wizard asked, turning to pour the tea. "How do you take it, sugar, milk?"

"One sugar, a dash of milk, thank you," Mycroft said, and shook his head. "I suppose I haven't much experience with people. I rarely have any reason to leave the house and since Mother died… well there haven't been that many guests."

"Ah," Harry answered, adding the sugar and fetching the milk, before carrying the tea on its saucer to the boy. "I'm sorry about your mother."

Mycroft frowned, nodding but not saying anything. Instead he gave his full attention to the tea cup, stirring it a couple of times before setting the spoon down and lifting the cup. He looked a bit surprised with the tea, and took a bigger gulp. "It's good," he said, sounding almost shocked.

"Thanks," Harry said a bit flatly, wondering what the kid had been expecting and then shaking his head with amusement. "Mind if I get back to work? Your father left me a bit of a mess to deal with, and I'd like to get at least some of this clean before I start making breakfast."

"Making break – yes, of course," the boy said, sounding a bit bewildered. Then he watched as Harry turned to continue scrubbing the rings of dirt from the stove, saying nothing for a long while. "Are you really going to make breakfast?" the boy finally asked.

"That's the plan. You're going to have to wait, though, the frying pans are currently in the washer," Harry answered.

"Oh," the boy muttered, falling quiet for a moment. "Are you really going to be our housekeeper?" Mycroft asked after a long moment, his voice oddly quiet and almost shy.

Harry glanced at the kid over his shoulder before setting the steel wool down for a moment. "I take it things have been a bit difficult around here without one?" he asked curiously.

"Well… Father tries and of course, we have the cleaning staff coming every now and then, but…" the boy shrugged. "Despite everything, Father's not a very good cook. He tries but…."

"Yeah, I can see the after effects of his _tries_ right here," Harry chuckled, while taking the towel to rinse the stove. "Your father and I decided that I'd be here for a week, and after that we'd see. So, for a week, I am going to be your housekeeper, or something like it. I don't actually have any experience in being a housekeeper, well… not _really_."

"Hm…" Mycroft hummed and sipped his tea thoughtfully. He glanced between the much cleaner kitchen counters and Sherlock who had discovered yet another tone of the rattler. "I think you're off to a good start."

"Thanks, kid," Harry grinned. "But reserve your judgement until after breakfast."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not being continued - this is a unfinished chapter I wrote way back when, posted on request. My interest in this story has long since died out, mainly due to canonical Mr. and Mrs. Holmes and all that. Still, I hope you enjoyed this for what it was worth.


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